Distractions
by Wofl
Summary: How did they get those handcuffs off Connor anyways? ConnorxMurphy


It all happens so fast. There's a gun in his face and Connor is left somewhere behind and all Murphy can think is if his dick of a brother doesn't get out here soon, there's going to be hell to pay. And then, like an angel from above ( _Stupid fuckin' analogy _he thinks to himself) his brother is there. Ever eloquent, Connor drops a goddamn toilet on the fat bastard's head.

But it gets the job done.

And then Connor is on the ground and Murphy can't get to him fast enough, hands pawing at his brother, slapping his cheek. Nothing. Connor's out cold and something frigid and slimy like a deadly parasite threads through his heart; a near fatal injection of panic.

Panicking won't help Connor, he reminds himself, and heaves to his feet, pulling Connor with him.

Connor is a heavy weight at his back, over his shoulder. Dead weight, he thinks, and fear jockeys adrenaline through his body. He doesn't feel the aches from the bar fight last night or the pain of the blow from the fucking Russians. He just feels the warm solid form of his brother over his shoulder, the pavement at his feet.

_Hospital,_ he thinks. He needs to find somewhere out of the way, somewhere where they won't ask questions.

--

By the time Murphy finds a place suitable, Connor is awake, groaning groggily, asking I where tha fuck are ya headed, Murph/i and imploring to be put down.

"Are ya crazy, Connor?" Murphy scolds, refusing his twin's request. "In case ya didn't notice, ya just jumped off a five story building."

It isn't a fact Connor can really protest, so he grumbles to himself a minute more, but lets Murphy carry him the rest of the way.

At the hospital the nuns tut and fuss, but don't ask for rhyme or reason. Connor is injured and that is reason enough for them. They fix up his leg easily enough and clean up the blood on his face, but when it comes to the handcuffs, they're stumped. Not one of them among them knows how to pick a lock and neither of the brothers have ever had any previous need to develop the skills.

Who needs locks when you can just kick down the door?

"They'll have to be cut off," the doctor announces, and calls for a janitor to bring him a hacksaw.

There's a certain amount of leeriness engraved into Connor's expression when he's first introduced to the doctor's shaking hands wielding the sharp tool, and Murphy can almost see the cringe that wants to cross his twin's face as the man looms nearer. Looking at the old decrepit piece of steel, Murphy doesn't blame him. One slip with that thing and it will do far, far more harm than good. He recalls warnings of tetanus and, more gruesome, he imagines ghostly white bones poking through split red flesh.

Murphy shudders at the thought. But there's no time for morbid fantasies now, because Connor's hands are stretched out across a table and the short chain is propped up on a block of wood and the edge of the saw is being set against the bright metal of the handcuffs and at his side, Murphy can feel – however slight- the tremor that shudders through his twin.

"This will hurt a bit," the doctor announces in a gruff voice, and jerks the tool back and forth a few times. Connor hisses and jerks as the metal bites into his already wounded wrists. The doctor pauses, is forced to readjust the saw, only to have Connor swear and jerk his hands away again a moment later.

Frustrated, the old man instructs Murphy to sit behind his brother and keep him from moving. Murphy feels the clamminess of Connor's skin as he grips his arms to hold them steady. His back is pressed up against Murphy's chest, and Murphy can feel his breath, quick and deep, his heart hammering faster than normal, like it would before a fight or after sex.

With a sudden thought, Murphy readjusts his grip, holding both of Connor's arms in just one hand as the other sneaks down Connor's side, tickling gently across his skin until his hand is resting in his twin's lap.

Murphy's first tentative touch at Connor's crotch, hidden from the hospital staff by the table's overhang, makes Connor jump in Murphy's grip, but the darker twin holds him still. The next touch, not so much of a surprise as the first, serves as a perfect distraction from whatever the shaky hands of the doctor might be doing above the table.

The hands _beneath_ the table are familiar and warm, discreetly snaking down Connor's pants to rub at all the spots that Murphy has learned to be particularly sensitive. Connor draws a sharp breath, arching back against Murphy's chest, and swears softly in Spanish, half turning his head to catch a sideways glance at Murphy's face.

There's an unspoken inquiry in his eyes, a question, even though Murphy knows his brother probably already knows the answer. In response, Murphy smiles, as if to reassure, and whispers back "vertrauen sie mir."

_ trust me_

And Connor does. Above all others, any fucking person in the entire country, he trusts Murphy. Murphy – the only person in his entire I life /I that has been there for him. So he relaxes, lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and nods once. "Si. Te tengo confianza."

_Yeah. I trust you_.

Murphy gives Connor's cock a gentle squeeze, forcing his twin to stifle a groan and bite his lip. They are in a hospital and there is a doctor who should be in a coffin utilizing a sharp instrument dangerously close to his flesh and his brother is giving him a hand job underneath the table.

Alerting the staff to this fact would most likely I not /I be a smart idea.

Connor feels Murphy's hand shift, slide slowly up the length of his cock and rub at the head with a broad thumb and a realization that should have been more apparent occurs to him.

This is fucking crazy.

It's almost like the shit you see in bad pornos, he thinks. Except in a porno, the doctor would be wearing nothing underneath his lab coat and the nurses would be in lingerie. And for once – Connor glances at the doctor sawing away and the nurses fussing in the backgrounds, but really they can't do anything- he was glad that this was not a porno.

And the thought of the doctor naked doesn't do much for his erection.

He kicks himself mentally, pushing those –ohgodgross- thoughts away and instead focuses on the hand in his pants, the soft slide and burn of dry flesh on flesh. He turns his head again to look at the feigned neutral expression imprinted on his twins face, but can see beneath it, to the hints of concentration marked by the corner of his mouth and the slight furrow of his brow.

That's enough to send a spike of arousal jetting through his nerves. He can see the way Murphy is trying to be careful and discreet, fast enough to take Connor's mind away from the screaming protests of his wrists, but slow enough that Connor won't revert back to his more basic urges, mind sent reeling until he is shouting incoherencies to the ceiling; even if that is how Murphy likes his twin best.

Both twins, however, recognize that this is not the time for that. But later, after they've gotten out of this mess, Connor will take his brother home and fuck him in every way imaginable because dear _God_ had he been scared today. He had been trapped and helpless and Murphy had almost _died_. Connor shudders at the thought. And if that isn't reason enough to fuck the man into the mattress, then Connor doesn't know what is.

But now…now Murphy is mouthing the back of his neck, his breath blowing hot against sensitive skin, and Connor doesn't know how the doctor can't notice it. But he doesn't worry about it. He told Murphy his trusts him, and he does, trusts that his twin knows what he's doing, that he won't get them kicked out and sent to a funny farm where they'd throw fire and brimstone down their throats and suspect that they'd been molested as children.

So he just enjoys it, loves the tingle that creeps down his spine, the way his hips shift of their own accord, slightly, and he forgets all about the jerking and the grating of metal on metal, doesn't remember to be worried for his fragile flesh.

What matters is the tongue that's creeping up to meet his ear, teeth pulling at the lobe gently and the hand down his pants, sliding back down his length and beyond to cup his balls, rolling them around in the palm of Murphy's hand.

He can't help the grunt that escapes his throat, though whether it's caused by the teeth at his ear that press just a little harder as the hand around his genitals squeezes a little tighter or because the saw finally breaks the loop of metal encasing his hand, even he doesn't know.

"One down," the doctor announces, sounding proud of himself, and the nurses rush to clean the ugly red wounds around Connor's wrist. Peroxide, or some other sort of disinfectant gets poured down into the lacerations. Connor jerks and yelps at the sting that flares up, sharp and unbidden, and Murphy tightens his grip across his brother's chest and moves his other hand just a little bit faster.

With a slow hissing exhale, Connor relaxes back against Murphy, eyes drooping closed as he feels the burning liquid being wiped away and replaced by bandages, wound securely around his wrists.

"Ya' all right there, Conn?"

Connor swallows, and nods, opening his eyes so he can turn around and flash Murphy his winning grin. The one that Murphy says made him fall in love with him, when he's being stupid and sappy.

"The fuck? Ya' think I wouldn't be?" he snaps, before Murphy gives his cock a tighter squeeze than necessary and a pointed look before turning his eyes to the nurses, who look rather offended at Connor's language. Connor mutters a soft 'oh' and scratches at his head with his newly freed hand and smiles sheepishly.

The doctor takes the awkward silence that ensues as his chance to segue the focus over to Connor's other wrist, which was still in need of freeing. With a hand that's shaking even more now than it was before, he sets the saw to the cuff and goes back to work.

Connor grits his teeth, new pain flaring up from his poor abused wrist, and his stiffens, spine going rigid. It takes Murphy's strong grip, pulling him back and the hand down his pants sliding up from the base to the very tip to distract him and force him back into a more relaxed position.

He can feel the wetness at his groin as Murphy spreads the precum over Connor's cock, and suddenly, there's less friction, less chafing and burning, and more pleasant sensations of motion. Suddenly the world is nothing more than the fingers wrapped around his cock and dear god, Murphy's mouth is on the back of his neck again, his tongue painting senseless patterns across his epidermis.

His ears are oblivious to the horrible screech of the saw as it bites slowly but surely through the metal but he thinks he may go deaf from the roar of blood rushing in his ears, or from his heart hammering in his chest. He's sure everyone can hear it, oh god are the nurses are looking at him funny, is he making a funny face?

He must be making a funny face, there's no mistaking the sideways glances those nurses are giving him. But he doesn't have time to care because Murphy's hand picks up speed, strokes him just a little faster, his fingers tightening and loosening in no particular pattern, testing out the spots that make Connor grimace and arch against Murphy's grip.

He feels hot and cold all at once, some sort of pressure building at the base of his spine and the world has imploded inwards. It doesn't matter that the doctor is jarring his wrist painfully or that Murphy is whispering in his ear in French to keep quiet or the nurses are giving him funny looks (because they definitely are) because he is going to come right in his pants in this grungy hospital.

It is right at that instant that the doctor breaks through the other loop, the metal falling free and Murphy stops moving his hand, relocating his grip to the base of Connor's cock and pinching it mercilessly to block his brother's orgasm.

"Non qui" his brother whispers in his ear before surreptitiously withdrawing his hand from Connor's pants once he's sure his brother isn't going to lose control and jizz all over the place.

_Not here._

And he's right, Connor knows. He's right, right, right and it pisses him the fuck off because now he has a raging hard on and his brother is going to make him wait until they get out of here to do anything about it and his brother is fucking right and right now he hates him for that.

Connor doesn't even notice the sting of the disinfectant this time. He's too busy wishing looks could kill because Murphy would be fucking dead right about now. And Murphy is sitting back with a cock-sucking grin on his face that Connor would give just about anything to wipe away.

With his fists.

But his torture doesn't end there, oh no! Because now they are all bandaged up and their booboos have all been kissed but they have to wait for Doc, because Murphy says they can't carry around the stash they got off the Russians because someone might see it. But he knows Murphy's just being an ass at this point.

Connor growls to himself, eternally grateful that his bathrobe is loose enough to hide his boner and he promises himself that this will not go unpunished. No fucking way.

It seems like forever until Doc gets there and they send him off with their goods and can finally go home, because that is where they are going _first _Connor tells Murphy in no uncertain terms. And Connor can tell that Murphy seems rather skittish about the way Connor is gripping his shoulder – fingers digging into the flesh mercilessly, squeezing cruelly- under the pretext of helping him limp along. His knee still hurts like a bitch, after all. One more thing Murphy owes him for.

And Connor thinks, as the two leave the hospital, words and threats of what Connor is going to do to and with his twin when they get home whispered in his brother's ear, that in the very near future, he will invest in some rope.


End file.
